


The Longest Night of the Year

by bookjunkiecat



Series: Longings [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 18:23:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9001501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookjunkiecat/pseuds/bookjunkiecat
Summary: It's the longest night of the year and Sherlock is far from home. He needs something to distract him or things could go sideways. Who--or what--will he turn to? And when it looks like something bad has befallen our reluctant hero, who will come to his rescue?





	

**Author's Note:**

> I just love these characters...I hope I'm not having them stray too far from their character traits, but either way I'm enjoying it.
> 
> I'm halfway through the next installment, which I would have liked to have posted today also, but I ran out of time, and at the moment my bf is waiting on me. It's Christmas Eve and we have two whole lovely days together! Enjoy the time with your families, see you next week!

_Turkey_

 

          A little cocaine would be just the thing; speed up this godawful long night. Or maybe some heroin; just drift while the hours spun their way into the darkness of night and towards the far off dawn.

          Unfortunately, while he was in a place where obtaining narcotics would be a fairly easy task for an experienced user such as himself, he couldn’t risk exposure. And tempting though the idea was to lose himself in a delicious, drug-assisted daydream, Sherlock needed to keep his wits about him.

          The boredom was the worst. While Mrs. Holmes’ youngest didn’t relish filth, he had a certain laxity in his personal habits (some of John’s strongly worded complaints regarding body parts in the fridge, science experiments next to the toothbrushes, and dusty stacks of books all over the flat came to mind). So he didn’t mind quite so much not getting to bathe regularly, nor having to hide in this hovel. And food was a nuisance (though one he found he needed more regularly now that he was on the run so much), so he could content himself with nearly anything.

          Running around the world like this, taking down Moriarity’s far flung empire was interesting, and stimulating, and kept him from being bored. For the most part; only, there were nights like this; he was stuck in this outpost, waiting for the extraction team, so he could be off to the next squalid locale or dazzling resort town. It occurred to him to slip out and walk through the town; but he would be too conspicuous. He may possibly have learned a smidgeon of caution in the last twenty four months.

          Pacing took up approximately three and a quarter minutes before he banged his shin on the bed and cursed, hopping about like a demented stork. Nursing the bruise that was sure to form, he sat on the bed and drummed his fingers on his thigh.

          Brooding took more time. He realized he was counting the water spots on the ceiling rather obsessively and rolled over. There was something hard digging into his hip; fishing around in his pocket he pulled out the burner phone he had been using for the last week. The fantasy of calling John occurred to him, but the consequences were too great; with regret he set aside the notion. Too dangerous, and no doubt John would be peeved to learn of his status among the living during a late night call. Mycroft of course was a possibility, but things weren’t so dire that he needed _that_ kind of distraction. However…

 

******

 

_London_

          The buzz of Molly’s mobile against the bedside table woke her from sleep; the curse of most of those in the medical field was that at a certain point you became a light sleeper who responded to interruptions by coming at least semi-awake at a rapid pace. She wasn’t on-call, so her phone was silenced, but she still reacted to the buzz of the vibrations.

          “Hmm?”

          She leaned over and patted the blanket wrapped figure beside her on the bed. “Nothing, love, go to sleep.”

          A light snoring was her only response as she rubbed her eyes and focused on her phone. It was a text. Who could possibly be texting her this late? She and her friends were in their thirties, it was a Thursday, there was no wild partying going on that anyone should have cause to be awake at…12:54 in the bloody morning…and texting her. Unless it was an emergency.

          **FANCY A CUP OF COFFEE?**

          Fantastic, a drunk text from a wrong number. Her thumb hovered over the screen as she prepared to tell them off. Her phone buzzed in her hand again and another message popped up.

          **I TAKE MINE BLACK, TWO SUGARS.**

          Molly clutched her phone and beamed at the screen, her happy face bathed in the glow. That mad pillock!

          It was most definitely against all good sense for him to be texting her, even though she was sure he was taking some precautions (at least she bloody well hoped so). But he had been gone for nearly two years and this was the first contact she’d had with him. Bugger it, she was responding.

          _DECAF FOR YOU…IT’S LATE. OR HADN’T YOU NOTICED?_

**IT’S PRACTICALLY DAWN HERE.**

**FORGET I SAID THAT.**

_FORGET WHAT?_ ___SO…YOU CAN’T TELL ME WHERE YOU ARE BUT TELL ME YOU’RE OKAY._

**OF COURSE I’M OKAY. I’M THE KING OF OKAY.**

Molly stifled a laugh in the comforter, and cast a guilty look over her shoulder. She felt like she was cheating, but that was ridiculous. It wasn’t as if she were doing anything wrong. Not really. Not to speak of. Never mind that she _was_ doing something wrong. Just not the cheating kind of wrong. Oh hell, what was wrong with her? It must be the late hour.

          _DID YOU—DID YOU JUST QUOTE THE DOCTOR???_

**** **DOCTOR WHO?**

******

 

_Turkey_

          Lying on his back in the lumpy bed, Sherlock smirked at the screen. He was fairly certain he had just heard Molly’s delighted squeal from here. Sherlock found that he was smiling. It might be silly, but there was no one to see.

          Settling in more comfortably, folding the thin and inadequate pillow in half and shoving it behind his head, he fired off another text. Mycroft would likely want to strangle him if it ever came out that he had (only slightly) compromised his safety for a late night texting session with Molly Hooper. Mycroft could go sod himself, as Mycroft had no idea how lonely it could be out here.

          No, strike that. Not lonely. He didn’t get lonely; loneliness was for people who needed people. He didn’t need people. Alone was—alone was—

          Oh for fuck’s sake, admit it to yourself if no one else, Holmes…you need people.

          Just a few of them. One or two.

          John.

          Molly.

          He closed his eyes for a minute and imagined them both here, one on either side of him in the bed. John would be sitting on the edge of the mattress lecturing him for lying to him, while Molly would be…

          What would Molly be doing? Would she curl up next to him and put her hand on his chest the way she had his last night? Were they to be that intimate again? Did he even want that?

          His phone lit up and he pulled himself from his reverie. No use thinking impossible thoughts. Tonight he was looking for distraction, but he needed to keep it to something manageable, not thoughts that would pull him away from the mindset he needed to get the job done. Slowly but surely he was picking apart the last of Moriarity’s criminal web. Everything he had endured would be worth it if he could resume his old life. Two years had passed, but he imagined that everything was essentially the same. He would be able to slip back into his life as easily as he would slip into his Belstaff. Strange new desire for people aside, he was the same man. Two years hadn’t changed that. Nothing could.

 

******

 

_London_

          Blimey, who would believe that Sherlock Holmes had spent two hours texting her in the middle of the night? Well, most people thought he was dead, so that would be a bit of a stretch for them to imagine. But those that knew, would they be surprised? Molly was. She was also touched. Sherlock—the old Sherlock—would never have spent this much time fooling about. He joked. Sometimes badly, or with obscure references to biology or arcane pathology texts, but he joked. He asked how she had been.

          She was cross-eyed with exhaustion, and badly needed sleep, but he had reached out to her, from who knew how far away, or under what circumstances, and she would be there for him. Loathe to wake Tom, she had slipped from the bedroom and was curled up on the sofa, wrapped in an old afghan her granny had crocheted. The only light was from the fairy lights on their little Christmas tree, otherwise the room was bathed in shadows, lending her the feeling that she was involved in something furtive, but magical.

          Just as she was about to admit defeat, the words on her screen blurring, a text came through.

          **TIME TO GO.**

**THANK YOU FOR SAVING ME AGAIN.**

She sat up straight and sent back a lightning fast, badly typed response, but her phone stayed dark. No more texts were coming through. Unwilling to give up on the chance that he might send one last message—and wondering what he meant about saving him _again_ —Molly clutched the phone and willed him to send one last text. When none seemed forthcoming, she scrolled back through their conversation, committing it to memory; regretfully, she deleted the conversation. No doubt tech-savvy people would be able to locate it quickly enough, but there wasn’t any use making it easy for them.

 

******

 

_Turkey_

          The truck hit a pothole and the two men inside bounced on the hard seats. Sherlock rubbed the top of his head and bit back harsh words for the driver. Perhaps this fellow (despite the password and safety precautions) wasn’t from Mycroft, but was instead here to kill him. If so, he hoped that he didn’t intend on braining him with a clever use of potholes and a Soviet-era vehicle with bad shocks. There had to be easier ways to go.

          “Why don’t you risk turning on the headlights?” he inquired politely, “I’m sure you’re missing all the best potholes.”

          “Sorry, but we have to keep dark for another mile or two,” responded the driver, who was wearing night-vision goggles and a comm unit which he pressed now. “Approximately ten minutes from you.”

          The response came back crackling with static, but Sherlock recognized the voice of the man who spoke. He had been involved in getting him into Turkey. Perhaps Mycroft had sent them after all.

          After a grueling ride which took closer to fifteen minutes than the projected ten, they pulled up to a remote airfield. The area was draped in darkness, but there was quiet activity indicating that quite a few people moved about.

          Once he was seated on the plane, the strapping goon that had greeted him upon his arrival in the country stepped in, ducking his head to clear the short doorway. “Alright sir, hold tight and we’ll be taking off in a few minutes.”

          “Where to?” Sherlock asked, miffed. He had been following the trail, with assistance from Mycroft’s intelligence sources as needed, but this was something else that his brother had dug up, and he was going in blind.

          “Serbia.”

 

******

 

_London_

_One month later…_

          Was it luck or planning? Given that it was Mycroft Bloody Holmes, Molly rather suspected the latter. Since she and Tom became serious about dating, her encounters with Mycroft had dwindled. Once they became engaged (even before they made it official and let the world know) he had practically disappeared from her life. She supposed he hadn’t wanted the scrutiny Tom would certainly bring to bear on just why he was a part of her life if the two men met. So he must be aware that Tom was out of town for him to show up at this hour, unannounced.

          He was a private, secretive person—she knew that and understood it—but it felt rather harsh to have him drop out of her life because she was in a relationship. They could still have met for tea in out of the way places. The occasional visit to the morgue wasn’t so unheard of that it would have raised eyebrows. She missed him.

          Well, here he was, on her doorstep, gift wrapped, so to speak.

          Despite the fact that she was loggy and a bit grumbly from being on her period, had a breakout threatening, and was wearing baggy flannel pajama bottoms and a stretched out tank top with a huge decal of a cat’s face on it; despite the late hour, the fact that he had shown up at nearly midnight, and despite the fact that she hadn’t heard from him in nearly three months…Molly was absurdly happy.

          “Come in.” Not waiting for him to obey her, she grabbed him by one overcoat clad arm and practically dragged him into her flat. She peered into his face, “Oi! You’re white as a sheet.” Fear slithered in her gut like snakes, “What’s wrong?”

          Despite his rather haggard, careworn appearance, he smiled (one of his private, just for Molly smiles, not the tight-lipped public one he used for everyone else). “Observant as ever, my dear.” He was good, oh yes, he was very good. But she could still tell that he was trying to maintain an unaffected front.

          She manhandled him onto the sofa, darted into the kitchen for the bottle of good brandy she kept for him and splashed a generous measure into a glass. Returning to his side, she folded herself up close to him and pressed the glass into his hands. “Drink up, doctor’s orders.”

          His lips quirked, “Given the state of your patients, I might want to give it a miss.”

          “Ha ha. Drink.” She folded her arms and gave him her sternest frown. He didn’t look particularly phased, but he took an obliging sip. Rather than bombard him with the fears and worries bouncing around inside of her, she sat quietly and watched him drink.

          After a few minutes his color had improved and he looked slightly less wooden. He opened his mouth, but it took a moment for the words to work their way out of his throat. “He’s disappeared.”

          The snakes were back, writhing frantically, squirming as if they would force themselves out of her. Grabbing the glass from him, she took a healthy swallow and promptly choked. Once her coughing fit had passed, she waved away his concern, “Fine,” she wheezed, pressing her hands to her burning cheeks, wiping away the tears which had squeezed out with her coughing. She begged him with her eyes to continue.

          “He’s been in Serbia for nearly the last month, very much undercover. I had an email from him two weeks ago, he was onto something but he wouldn’t come out with it and tell me. Since then, nothing.”

          “Surely long silences aren’t uncommon,” she suggested weakly.

          “He promised to call as soon as he knew more. It was a bit of a dangerous situation, and I made him give me his word that he would call no matter what.”

          “Do you have anyone looking for him?”

          His look was pointed. “Of course you do, silly of me to ask,” she murmured, patting his arm placatingly. “So what happens next?”

          “I’m waiting to hear back from an agent who may have a lead on him.”

          “And then?”

          He looked at her steadily.

          “You’re going after him.” The snakes were the size of the Loch Ness monster now. Molly was afraid her heart might burst out of her chest. “Oh Mycroft, no,” she whispered, heart clutching, breath failing her.

          “He’s my brother.”

          “You could be in danger.” She didn’t point out that he no longer worked in the field, that he was older and less agile than his brother. He knew all those things. _He doesn’t know I love him_ , she thought, as dizziness swept through her along with the truth she had been hiding from herself. _Bloody hell what a time to realize it._ Tempting though it was to tell him, she had enough sense to realize that it wasn’t the time or situation, and given that Tom as due back from Wales next week, and she was still very much engaged to him, it really wouldn’t do to speak. Molly became exquisitely aware of just how close they were sitting; her leg was pressed against his thigh, her hands were wrapped around his arm, their faces were aligned as if for a kiss.

          “What can I do?”

          “I shouldn’t have come and bothered you so late.”

          “Mycroft,” she chided.

          “I…” he trailed off, and she wondered why it was so hard for the Holmes boys to ask for what they wanted. “Will you wait with me?”

          “Of course.”

          She ended up heating up some leftover Thai food, since it turned out that he hadn’t eaten all day. Only bullying and his own good manners got him to eat. He didn’t finish what was on his plate, but she felt better knowing that he had eaten.

          He was too restless—they both were—for telly, and talking became stilted, the later it grew and the more worried they both became as word failed to come through. At last he pulled a second phone from his pocket and began teaching himself Serbian. Molly tried to find something to do, but finally she gave it up and sat propped against the end of the couch, her feet tucked under his thigh, and watched him.

          _Madness, Hooper_ , she lectured herself. _He’s old and prissy and cold and manipulative and he thinks Doctor Who is fanciful and ridiculous. He hates Toby. He hates everyone._

 _**Listen stupid,**_ barked her heart bossily ** _, do you think any of that matters? What about how he smiles when he sees you? He doesn’t hate everybody. He likes you_**. **_He bought you that limited edition Doctor Who lithograph even if he thinks the show is silly. He knows you, he knows what you like. Besides, who else has ever made me leap like he does? Not Tom, that’s for sure._**

She must be going insane. Maybe she was crazy, because she was sitting here wondering if she could possibly get out of her engagement. If it was a bad idea to tell Mycroft how she felt before he headed into danger. Yes, a bad idea. He didn’t need any distractions. Also, she was pretty sure that he just considered her a friend.

          Well, except for the way he had been staring at her for the last few minutes. Molly felt like a rabbit, safe and quiet in its warren, which had suddenly looked up to see a hawk circling in on it. _That shouldn’t be sexy_ , she thought dizzily, _but damned if it isn’t._

Who knows what idiotic thing she might have done if his phone hadn’t rang. Within minutes he was on his feet, pulling on his overcoat and striding toward the door. His eagerness to be gone infected her and it was all Molly could do to keep from running after him.

          He turned so suddenly that she slammed into his chest and he put his arms around her. It happened so fast that she was unprepared for him to duck his head and kiss her. _So that’s chemistry_ , she mused dreamily, snaking her arms around his neck and pressing herself against him.

          Mycroft broke the kiss, ran his hand through his hair and stared at her, looking vulnerable. “Molly—“

          “I know, you have to go. Bring him back safely, do you hear?” She made herself smile bravely, not wanting to let go even as she stepped back and clasped her hands behind her to keep from clutching at him.

          His face altered, assuming that cold expression that looked as if he were looking down his nose at you. “Naturally. Thank you for your hospitality, Miss Hooper.”

          Confused was too mild a word for how she felt. He was gone quickly, and she stood in her flat, wondering what the hell had just happened.


End file.
